Cobwebbed ceilings,
dust bunnies in corners
in the rich man’s house—Debisu
Organic putrefaction, thick and stifling, smells like trouble, possibly for me, but it’s whoever is inside that concerns me. Anyway, I’ve smelled worse, so I steel myself and limp forward. No one attacks me nor does anyone call out.
Almost as a matter of reflex I go for my weapon and come up empty-handed. My sidearm, a chopped Beretta that conceals nicely, is home, stored high on a closet shelf with the intention that I would never need it again. So much for wishful thinking.
The rear door opens onto a breakfast nook furnished in ultramodern chrome and black leather that is truly too cool for the room. Dust dulls the table’s smoky glass top.
The kitchen adjoins the breakfast nook. More shiny surfaces here. The black marble counter tops and gray granite floor have the solid, subtle sheen of real rock, unlike the man-made imitations I saw in the model. Not a single fingerprint or smudge mars them, nor the stainless steel sink, commercial-quality appliances, nor the leaded glass fronts and pewter trim of the cabinets. The pervasive odor doesn’t seem to come from the garbage disposal. Maybe under the sink.
The cabinets don’t have handles or knobs; they must work on magnetic touch latches. Just a nudge with a knee that with any luck won’t leave too big a fabric impression pops the under-sink cabinet door open. There are none of the expected cleaners, rags or sponges but there is a wastebasket. Empty. I help myself to a white vinyl liner from an open box, wrap it a few times around my hand for a glove, and open the refrigerator. Inside I find a liter of tonic water, a quart of orange juice, a pizza box. The juice appears to have fermented; the sides of the plastic jug bulge ominously. I nudge open the lid of the pizza box. Either Speed-E Pizza is delivering a new green fuzzy topping these days or the thing has gone moldy.
As if prepared for an elegant dinner, the dining room table is already set with gold-trimmed plates, silverware, and wine goblets. Pastel cloth napkins stuffed into the glasses have lost their starch and droop like wilted tulips. The table itself, a pedestal-mounted high-gloss slab of seamless magenta laminate, wears a light veil of dust and is fingerprint-free. A wet bar glistens with cut crystal decanters, all empty. A hammered copper and brass trimmed espresso machine rivals anything I’ve seen at the Kaffeteria, but there’s not a water spot on it.
The rest of the first floor—a living room that hasn’t been lived in, a deserted den, a spotless half bath—is the same: showy, trendy furnishings and upgrades. Though Shays’ Landing is undisputedly upscale, the money spent decorating this unit is way out of proportion. Except for someone with drug money. I’ve seen some humble facades hide palatial insides. Drug money could also explain the luxurious Eterniti bought for cash.
The furnishings scream “expensive” but whisper “unused.” Dust frosts everything. Maybe Hector didn’t buy everything for himself but took them in trade for drugs. He might have been running a stash house here.
I still haven’t found what’s causing the rotten smell but there is a second level. Cautiously I climb the stairs, a Goldilocks skulking around the home of three bears where everything is too big or too brilliant but nothing is quite right.
The stairs lead to a small library. Built-in bookcases are stuffed with leather-bound classics of the sort decorators buy in caseloads just to fill shelves. A chair-side table next to a sleek leather recliner holds a burled wood cigar humidor designed for serious smokers, with a hygro-thermometer set in the lid. I lift the lid with a vinyl-wrapped hand. The humidor is empty, but fresh tobacco aroma strong and sweet enough to assert itself over the stink in the condo floats up to my nose, making me almost dizzy with desire.
The other room is the master suite. A headboard of polished aluminum that arcs behind the king-sized bed reflects my image like a fun house mirror. More polished aluminum trims shiny white chests and nightstands as well as a seven-drawer dresser topped with a four-foot high mirror. Apparently this is the only room that got any use. Not only “any use”—all the use. I can’t see the carpet for the clothes and papers that litter it. I believe I have found the source of the smell. Dirty dishes of spoiled half-eaten food lie all over the place along with empty liquor bottles and glasses glazed with sediment.
If Hector’s into drugs, this is almost true to form. I’ve seen some successful dealers flush with cash and surrounded by luxury but living in squalor. That I haven’t found any money or drugs makes me wonder if Hector fled in a major hurry, maybe mere minutes ahead of Shrike.
I pick my way around the clear paths between the door and the bed, the bed and the master bath. The medicine chest is crammed with over-the-counter remedies for headache, heartburn and hair loss, foul breath, itchy eyes, watery nose and burning feet, plus a diet aid for weight loss. “Appetite suppressant.” That’s a laugh. If appetites were so easily suppressed, a lot of people would be out of business. But there are no controlled substances here, legally prescribed or otherwise.
A loud short bang erupts somewhere at the rear of the condo. Instantly I’m on the floor, adrenalin rocketing, and lie there a long time, insensible. Only when the cold floor tile threatens to stamp my cheek permanently do I return to myself. No commandos have stormed the condo. All is quiet. Backfire from a car in the parking lot, that’s all the noise was.
A blackout, a bad one. Not good, not good at all. Shaking my head, I return to the bedroom to resume my investigation. It’s a good thing no one’s life depends on my stability, or lack thereof.
On my knees I sift through the debris on the floor, lifting different layers away. The clothes are all men’s. From the quantity here it appears that when something got too dirty or wrinkled to wear, Hector tossed it aside and simply bought a replacement. Plenty of credit card slips and men’s store receipts back up that theory. The bottommost layer of May and June statements is covered by past due notices with July, August, and September issue dates. I collect samples from each stratum in the trash bag.
A folded sheet of coarse off-white paper gets my attention. I’m about to open it when I hear something downstairs. I shove the paper in my sack, stand in the bedroom’s threshold, and concentrate all my alertness in my ears hoping the sound will come again to prove I’m not hallucinating. Yes! At the front door. A knock. The leasing agent? The inquisitive neighbor? I freeze with the cold awareness that I am not supposed to be here, must not be discovered. Maybe if I remain motionless, make no noise, whoever it is will go away.
Perhaps they have. In the silence, my heartbeats are so loud I can count them. I lift my foot to move toward the landing when another knock stops me where I stand, poised on one leg like an egret. My pulse metes out eight more beats. Twelve, sixteen. I lower my foot and hear a new noise. Metal on metal. A key in a lock? Hector? There’s a creak of hinge and the door opens.
Someone steps inside. Blue ball cap, matching blue Windbreaker. Too slender to be Hector, he’s carrying a flat shallow green and red carton. I flash on the Speed-E pizza box in the refrigerator. Pizza boy? He peers right, left, then gumshoes down the hall. Not wanting to be seen I step back but it is too late, he spots me. He stops, spins, and makes for the door. I race down the stairs and out the door after him because now I want to know, who called for the pizza? Did Hector? Was he here just before I arrived? Is he on his way?
“Hey, wait a minute!” I yell.
Pizza Boy lifts the box’s lid, grabs the pizza, and flings it. I catch it full in the face. Hot sauce and cheese cling to my skin. I scrape it away before the gluey substance scalds my eyelids and cheeks. When I can see again there is no sign of Pizza Boy, only an empty carton abandoned on the walk.
Hector’s fetching neighbor comes trotting around the bend, her workout gear daubed with perspiration. She slows as she nears me, a slightly raised eyebrow the only intimation of curiosity. I smile innocently as if not aware of the strange picture I present, panting man holding a trash bag and wearing a pizza, and she moves on.
I pick pepperoni slices off my shirt and wonder, since when do Speed-E delivery drivers have house keys?